Page 87 of Fortress of Ambrose (House of Marionne #3)

Seventy-One

Quell

Dlaminaugh is being pummeled with snow the morning of Nore’s funeral. For two days the ancestors’ presence has grown around the estate. But the trees in the forest still shake in the middle of the night, which Nore explained means Ellery hasn’t given up picking off the ancestors one by one.

Dark gray is the color of mourning at House of Ambrose. And it is everywhere and on everyone. Nore hasn’t been seen since the meeting in her office. Letting the entire House in on our secret was too much of a risk. So shortly after the announcement went out, the House went into official mourning.

The last lie my House would ever stand for, she’d called it.

The estate has been scant and silent since. Flowers have been laid all over the grounds. Walls have been graffitied in bright colors in Nore’s honor. Nore’s maid hasn’t eaten in days, inconsolable. And Yagrin has even roamed the halls with Isla, making a good show of their grief.

The night sky glows with the promise of morning over hundreds of chairs arced around a raised dais, where there is a stand for Nore’s body to lie.

So many have responded to the post in Debs Daily requesting permission to attend.

At first we considered saying no, but to keep the veneer of honesty, we had to go along with it fully.

“Are you ready?” It’s Abby, working with Lady Ruby to add the finishing touches to the cloak so that once the Dragunhead’s wrapped in it, it renders him immovable.

She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.

Isla and Erla sit beside a window with a view of the funeral setup outside.

Erla inspects the artifact from Ruby, a long dagger with an ornate, curved handle.

All is in hand. When Nore’s mother isn’t wailing or patrolling the halls, she hasn’t spoken much.

I hand her the metal box with the diadem of the Sphere’s proper magic.

“Remember, it stays up here. No matter what.”

“Promise me you will do whatever you can to protect her from him.”

“He won’t touch her.”

Erla hands her a tissue.

“Do you have the rings, too?” I ask her.

Erla nods, showing me the pile she forged the last two days, several dozen.

“The minute the Dragunhead is paralyzed, we take his body, and Jordan, to the lab for the blood transfusion and extraction. We will try the rings first, as Jordan wants. But we have the dagger as a backup. We are as ready as we can be.”

“Very good.”

“It will work, Headmistress,” Erla says, and I desperately want to believe her. I leave them there, returning to Jordan, who peers outside the doors to the room where shadows loom. The Ambrose dead have taken a liking to us, particularly Jordan, following him wherever we go.

I check my watch. “Take the cloak to her,” I tell Abby. “We don’t have long before her body is set out at sunrise.”

“You’ve done good,” Ruby says, patting Abby on the back. She hugs me, and I squeeze her back, wondering how we actually pulled this off, so many hands on board, on the same team.

The funeral doesn’t start until noon. But when the sun crests the horizon, the Dragunhead should be there.

The cloak will be lying partly over Nore’s body like a mourning blanket, and when he is close enough, she will toss it over him, trapping him in it.

Jordan and Yagrin will be waiting to step in and apprehend him in order to take him to the lab.

It isn’t a perfect plan, but it is the plan we have.

And the first leg of it depends on me.

Yagrin lingers in the shadows of the room, not speaking to anyone. He watches pensively as Abby folds up the cloak and stuffs it in a bag. He and Jordan haven’t spoken. And what’s even more odd is that until now, anytime we were in the same room, Yagrin would leave.

“What do you make of him?” I jab a thumb back at Yagrin.

“I hurt him,” Jordan says. “He’s angry with me, rightfully so.”

“What did you do?”

“Before they knew the Scroll was a hoax, he and Nore were planning to steal it from under our noses. He wanted to save her.”

“Instead of me.”

“Yes.”

“Can you blame him?”

Jordan sighs. “No, I can’t. But I told him if he was lying, I’d gut Nore myself.”

“Jordan.”

“I know. I knew it was wrong the minute I said it. But knowing isn’t enough. I need to talk to him.”

Abby drops the bag, and it rips. She groans. Jordan and I rush over. We wrangle it into a new bag for her. And once she’s all set, she is out the door. The sky outside steadily brightens.

“It’s nearly time. I should go.”

Jordan takes my black rose corsage and ties it onto my wrist. Then he tosses my House sash over my head. “I’ll be a hundred feet away, no more, watching everything. If you need me—”

I kiss his cheek. “I know.”

“And remember, he will try to appeal to you in a fatherly way.” Jordan strokes my face. “But you’re everything already without him. You have never needed him, and you never will.” He plants a kiss in the palm of my hand, and I hurry to depart the estate.

Outside, Nore is being laid on top of thousands of blue flowers.

Her perfectly made-up face is a picture of her frozen in time.

Her hair has been curled, and blue flower buds are sprinkled throughout it.

The cloak is folded across her from the waist down.

Her hands lie on top of one another on her chest. In her fingers is a single bloom.

Abby was supposed to give her some kind of elixir to help her breath become shallow, but Yagrin protested, not trusting anything that would alter her ability to react quickly.

So she lies there, trying to not breathe noticeably.

“Leave me,” I tell everyone, before scanning the perimeter of the forest. There is no sight of the Dragunhead anywhere.

When I am alone, I whisper to Nore, “You’re doing incredibly.

You know, there is something that I never got to talk to you about.

I probably should have before now. But thank you for welcoming my House here and standing up for unity the way you did.

” My suspicions about the Dragunhead have me in a knot.

“If things come to light today as I suspect, I am even more thankful for you. For giving me an opportunity I may have never had. I’ve always wanted a sister. ”

Nore’s lip twitches, and it makes me smile.

“Do you always talk to dead people?” The Dragunhead’s voice sends my heart knocking into my ribs.

I face the man walking toward me with clasped hands. Showtime.

“I prefer to talk to people when they’re alive. But if the chance escapes me…”

His wavy gray hair is loose down his back.

He wears a thick leather coat embroidered with each House’s sigil.

The sleek lines of his face are sharper and more severe than I remember.

And he is much taller than I recall. He walks with a stride uncharacteristic of someone of his age. How did I not notice that before?

“Well, I would never want to put you in that position.” He joins me on the dais and gazes at Nore. He touches his chest, his mouth turning down.

“You can’t. Because you can’t die. Isn’t that right?”

“Not easily.” He moves closer to Nore, and I pray she is holding her breath.

“Was there anything you wanted to say to her? Your daughter.”

“Many things, when she was alive. But her mother kept her away.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

His attention moves to me. It’s only then I notice a bouquet at his back. He sets it on top of Nore’s body, and my insides slosh for her.

“With as much family as you’ve lost, aren’t you grateful for a sister?”

He doesn’t know my mother lives. “I wish I’d have known about her years ago.” Angering him isn’t the goal. I need to position him somehow with his back to Nore. But he stands across the dais from me, staring between Nore and me.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, biting back my frustration and all the accusations and magic I wish I could hurl at him.

“You don’t need to thank me, child. I should thank you.”

My heart ticks faster.

“This wasn’t my plan, Quell. I never wanted to leave you or Nore. You know, I came up with her name.”

“Oh?” My throat thickens. I watch Nore, and thankfully she doesn’t move. The Dragunhead’s body hasn’t turned away from her, but his eyes are all on me now.

“It was Noriana. But her mother said that sounded like a disease. So I shortened it. Noriana was my mother’s name.”

“Thadius’s mother?”

“No, Quell. My real mother. Noriana Paru, daughter of Areya Paru, whose name you might have heard.”

“Areya Paru is the Mother of Magic.”

“That’s what they called her for trying to protect her ancestors’ legacy. A legacy that she didn’t understand and never asked for. I always found her honorable.”

Cold writhes in me. “And do you always find yourself that way?” I bite my tongue too late.

“I am sorry, Quell. I am very sorry.”

My next thought abandons me, and I manage a feeble “Thank you.” I clear my throat. It is small. It is probably a lie. But it is something. And for everything I’ve been through, my mother’s been through, Jordan’s been through, an apology is nice. Even a fake one.

“Your mother wouldn’t hear a word about your name. It was Raquell. Period.” He smiles, and I stare at the ground. He is good at pretending. Practiced at it for centuries. None of his sentiment is real.

“So then, tell me, what should I call you?”

He steeples his hands. “You can call me whatever you like. I was born Yaque Paru, eldest son of Noriana Paru and eldest grandson of Areya Paru. I was born on Daughter’s Den Isle and lived there, escaping by pirate ship with the magic my mother managed to save by seeking asylum there.

The island was a graveyard when I left. Cut off from the rest of the world, your books call it the—”

“Den of Bones.”

“Yes. I have lived through horrors you cannot imagine.”

I swallow my sharp retort and instead angle my body away from Nore to face out toward the empty concrete seats, hoping he maneuvers to stand beside me. “It’s a beautiful ceremony, don’t you think?”